


The Unicorn

by mehramilo



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Awkward Sexual Situations, Don't Try This At Home, F/M, geralt's worse than cosmo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 09:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14162118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehramilo/pseuds/mehramilo
Summary: In the hold of Radovid's ship, Roche and Ves stumble across a most noble bit of cargo.





	The Unicorn

**Author's Note:**

> Something silly for April Fool's.

“That,” Ves said, “is not a unicorn.”

“Yes, it fucking is.” Roche narrowed his eyes. “I think.”

They stood in the underbelly of the _Oxenfurt-Tretogor_ with a single guttering torch held aloft between them to light the cavern. Here, hidden behind rows of barrels packed with salted fish, crates stacked high enough to scrape the ceiling, grimy ropes and oars, rusted blades, crusted buckets, and snarled netting, they found the most noble cargo of all: a unicorn mounted atop a hewn pedestal.

The beast’s coat was the color of cobwebs—though whether that was its natural shade or just some indicator of rapidly encroaching rot, it was hard to be certain in the poor light. The buttery stumps of its teeth jutted from its mouth, frozen in a rictus grin, as if it had been killed and preserved mid-sneeze.

“Radovid probably meant to take it to his menagerie after the war,” Roche said. “I’ve heard he was quite the collector.”

“And blind as well as mad, apparently.” Ves cupped a chunk of the beast’s greasy tail up to the light. “There are still ribbons braided in its hair, Roche. He stuffed some little girl’s pony.”

Roche bent close to inspect the bright streamers. “The work of dryads,” he declared. “Geralt’s mentioned them before.”

Ves scoffed: “And this?” She grabbed the horn with the indelicate grip of a whore servicing a skint customer. It peeled off easily in her hand. “Looks like it was just pasted it on.”

“Those are meant to be harvested; of course they ploughing come off like that.” Roche folded his arms. “You think some hag’s going to bloody her hands for ingredients?”

Ves brandished the thing at him as if she meant to gouge out his eye with the tip—though, in truth, it was too dull to do much of anything but irritate. “This is a damn codpiece. I saw blokes strutting around with points like this in the square. It’s all the fashion nowadays.” She studied the gnarled rod a moment, turning it over in her palm. “Or perhaps just a mummified carrot. Either way— _not_ a unicorn horn.”

But Roche was no longer listening. He stroked the thing’s flank with loving reverence, as he’d seen Foltest do when inspecting steeds in the palace stables. He turned to her and, with all the regal solemnity of his erstwhile king, said: “You should get on it.”

“ _What_?”

He flushed a shade that would make a Toussaint sommelier stiff. “It’s, ah, something else Geralt mentioned.”

“You mean—” Ves glanced down at her shirt ties, already half-undone, then back at the ramshackle mount. “Roche, I think I’d catch mange.”

Roche propped the torch in a nearby bucket and pulled her into his chest. He kissed her: gently at first, as he knew she liked, then deeper, until she whimpered and began to caress him. Then he mouthed along her jaw until he found her ear and breathed: “We have some time before they find Radovid’s corpse.”

“Always the romantic.” Ves went slack in his embrace.

But when she peered up at Roche, he was smiling at her and, damn it, even laughing for the first time since he’d taken that Nilfgaardian bolt to the chest. So she said, “Well, I suppose I’ve had worse things between my thighs,” and tried to press a kiss against him.

He clenched his lips in a glower and refused to return it.

“Oh, come off it; of course I didn’t mean you.” She raked open the ties along her belly and shrugged out of her shirt. “I’ll do it, but you’re coming with me.”

“That’s the idea,” he drawled and started pulling his own laces free.

Once they both had stripped, Roche grasped her by the waist and lofted her atop the unicorn’s back. Its spine sagged and shrilled like a leaky bellows as it took her weight. Dust erupted from its coat and snowed down on Roche’s upturned face as she slid one leg over to sit astride. Ves inspected its mane—matted and lank like unwashed pubic hair—while Roche rounded the haunch and tried to clamber on behind her. The thing creaked dangerously for a moment, listing far to the left, then clattered as it tipped back onto all four hooves again.

“Shit,” Roche snapped somewhere by her shoulder. “Don’t hold on too tight. I think — I think it’s moulting.”

Ves swallowed thickly but leant back into Roche’s embrace as he scooted flush against her. He kissed the back of her neck along her hairline as he palmed her breasts and swept along the curve of her hip. She reached behind to stroke him.

Though this certainly felt nice, and she didn’t exactly want Roche to remove his hand from between her thighs, after a time she said: “Is this it? All that Geralt raved about?”

Roche huffed in aroused affront. “Oh, you want more?” He pressed her flat on her stomach along the knobbly withers. She held her breath, partly in anticipation and partly to block the ghastly stench—but mostly in anticipation, of course.

Roche shifted and pressed his cock against her. “Just—”

“Ah, _yes_ —”

“—fuck.” Roche sat back, clapped a hand on her arse, and urged her to arch. “Bad angle. You’ve got to keep it up.”

She clung to the beast’s shaggy back and tried to oblige. Roche’s cock dug into her inner thigh as he barreled forward; she bit her lip as she felt him sweep along to find her entrance—

He drew away again.

She flashed a glare over her shoulder, though this threatened to spill her over the side and onto the rotten floorboards below. “Enough,” she snapped. “Fuck me already.”

“No, it’s—” He blew a chop of air through gritted teeth. “My goddamn leg doesn’t bend that way.”

“Well, neither does mine, so stop pulling.” Ves flung his grip off her and fumed in silence.

And speaking of fumes—just what unholy stew had this carcass been dipped in to preserve it? Her head swam and pulsed at the temples.

“Roche,” she said softly, “get me off this bloody thing.”

He obeyed without hesitation, positively shimmering with delight, happy to have an excuse to dismount without having to admit defeat himself.

Once back on the floor, they regarded one another, covered in pelt-shed and contusions where the jagged beast had gouged them. Then, Roche tsked and shook his head. “Never listening to that son of a bitch again,” he growled. “Fucking sorceresses.”

“If you were, this might’ve worked,” she said wryly. She spotted a lone barrel tucked beside them, just at the edge of the firelight, mercifully free of both salty grime and fur. She bent over it and wiggled an invitation at him. “Let’s do this a little more old-fashioned, shall we? And afterward we can toss this cursed thing—” she nodded at the unicorn “—into the harbor. Sound good?”

Roche heartily agreed. He’d never been one for magical bullshit, anyway.


End file.
